


The Lies That Can Kill The Heart

by eawen_penallion



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gondolin, M/M, Rivendell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:43:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eawen_penallion/pseuds/eawen_penallion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for 'Slashy Santa 2006'</p>
<p>“Request (please try to include the elements listed here):  angst,elves (First Age more than the others), Maeglin or others. No fluff!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Maeglin arrives at his uncle's realm he expects to find new friends, but didn't expect to find his soul mate. However his upbringing has caused him to distrust his emotions, and little lies can infiltrate and damage a burgeoning love...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lies That Can Kill The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Maeglin's name is his adult name, but as a child he was called Lómion by his mother as so he is referred by this name in the majority of the story

Gondolin, First Age

 

The edhel stood silently in the shadows beside the window ledge, his keen eyes watching the bustling street below the King's Tower. As yet he was not used to the throngs of elves that inhabited the Hidden City; the constant chatter and incessant vitality within its walls was still hard to embrace for one used to the dark depths and quiet paths of the forests of Nan Emloth. Even his frequent journeys with his father to the mines of the Naugrim had failed to prepare him for this, his reunion with his Eldar kin in a land of sunshine and elven elegance.

Noldor.

Noldor all.

Most hated by his Teleri father, despised for their unwanted intrusion into Beleriand and the lands of the Moriquendi. That Eöl had taken a Noldor to wife was something Lómion had never understood, save that his mother was counted as one of the beauties of her people. Aredhel, the White Lady, sister of Turgon who was king of Gondolin, was returned to her people.

Lómion sighed, his mind whirling with all the events of the past few days. Mother and son, they had finally made their escape from Eöl’s oppression and their dark life in their forest home. The many tales his dam had woven in his childhood had filled him with a yearning to be one with his kindred, especially the uncle of who she spoke so highly, and so he had persuaded Aredhel to flee with him when next his father made one of his solitary journeys to the Dwarves. Long and arduous had been their journey yet, when his mother had fallen into her sibling's arms and wept with joy, Lómion knew that it had been worth every step on the winding paths. Turgon had welcomed his sister home and had embraced his sister's son in a kinsman's embrace, heaping upon them both high honours and ranking within his court.

So why now, having accomplished all that they had set out to do, did he feel so - cold? Why did he constantly look to the rim of mountain peaks that protected Gondolin, and experience that shiver of fear at each glance? He knew why. Eöl would be searching for them, his black anger inflamed at their daring to flee his insistent hold. His perverse pride in his captive wife Aredhel and his errant son Maeglin would not allow Eöl to let them be. The metal smith, with heart and fists of iron, would never let them go. It was no wonder that he, Lómion, who had long desired to live freely in Middle Earth no longer sought to stand bathing in the warmth of the sun but instead secreted himself away from Anor's revealing rays.

He heard the light tap upon the heavy wood of his chamber door, the click of the latch and then the firm treads across the stonework floor. He smiled slightly, knowing to whom that warrior's tread belonged. Turning towards the door, Lómion suppressed his heavy musings and grinned his welcome to the erstwhile intruder. Lómion did not shy from *this* personification of the sun. 

"Suilad, Glorfindel."

The golden-haired lord did not respond in words. Instead he swiftly pulled the darkling elf into his arms and laid his greeting upon the red lips in a fervent kiss that drew the breath from his young lover. Lómion melted against that strong frame, accepting the kiss and responding with eagerness. Even as he surrendered to the enthusiasm of his melethron, Lómion marveled at the speed at which their relationship had flourished...

....  
From the hour that Lómion and his mother had first entered the Hall of the King he had felt the edhel's sapphire eyes upon him. His senses had recognized that a heated gaze was traversing his slender body, a gaze that even now made him flush in warm arousal as he looked back at that moment, and he had known that he was hunted. The curious, the astonished, the doubtful; their roaming eyes were nothing to the intensity of this steadfast perusal. Lómion had surreptitiously sought out his admirer in the crowd of attending nobles, fully expecting his scrutiny to reveal some elf-maid who thought to catch his attention. Instead he had been shocked to behold the beauteous and imposing Vanya who stood at the shoulder of his king. Even as Turgon spoke, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower kept his steady gaze upon the dark elf, almost as if the ellon feared that its removal would cause the object of his desire to fade as easily as the morning mist.

Lómion had tried to distract himself from the potency of that avid stare by focusing upon a second blonde, his cousin Idril Celebrindal. Standing beside her father she was beautiful beyond measure and, had the taboo of close blood not been between them, Lómion could easily have wooed and loved the princess who looked at him with such empathy in her eyes. He truly mourned that insurmountable restriction for instead, the young edhel had felt the flush of heated blood rise to his cheeks from the close and obvious attention of the other Vanya.

The king had listened with wonder to the story of his sister's travails and travels and had bestowed upon Lómion (who had named himself with both his mother- and father-name) the title of Prince of the Noldor.

"I rejoice indeed that Ar-Feiniel has returned to Gondolin," Turgon had said, "and now more fair again shall my city seem than in the days when I deemed her lost. And Maeglin shall have the highest honour in my realm."

Within moments of the audience drawing to a close Glorfindel had moved quickly to Aredhel's side, renewing his friendship with the King's sister - and laying siege to her son's affections, with beguiling smiles, innocuous touches and witty words.

Within hours the inhabitants of Gondolin found themselves indulging in delicious gossip, reveling in the swift downfall of one of the city's most eligible lords.  
Idly had Glorfindel of the Golden Flower participated in the complex liaisons of the nobles of the Hidden City, for he had evaded the numerous entrapments of ambitious mothers of young maidens and had sampled lightly of those older unwed elves of both sexes, embracing fully of the dual natures of the Firstborn. Now he was constantly seen at the side of the King's nephew, his hand protectively placed upon the small of his back, his eyes sparkling in admiration, his lips murmuring sweetly against the pointed curves of his new consort's ear.

Within hours they were friends within days, they were courting - within a week, they were lovers.

....

"Meleth nín," the deep voice rumbled against the exposed skin of his slender neck where Glorfindel was indulging in tasting the sweetness of tender flesh. "Where does your mind wander? Should I be jealous of some presumptuous ellon that your attention is awry? Or does some flirtatious maid draw your mind to softer and, dare I say, soggier depths? Have you wearied already of my devotion?"

Lómion laughed as he was pressed further into the soft sheets of the ornate bed, recognizing the sharp humour in his lover's grumbling. Glorfindel believed, and therefore Lómion must believe, that there were none who could match him as a lover or a mate. However he was not as certain as to his own worth as a bedmate, having been a virgin but a few days before. Pulling the blond head away from the nipple that it was worshipping, he ignored the snorting protest and looked into Glorfindel's glorious eyes.

"I wonder only at the speed and strength of your attachment to me, seron vell - and why you chose me above so many more... attractive... admirers."

Lómion spoke in earnest, a nervous trembling in his voice. Since their arrival in Gondolin he had been overwhelmed by the colour and spectacle of Turgon's court and its denizens and - with his white skin, midnight hair, sharp features and rustic manners - he felt himself to be anomalous in this society of careless elegance. He had quickly recognized from the confused and envious reactions of those same elves that he was not seen as a suitable match for his mighty lord, and this inadequacy preyed upon his mind. Now he studied Glorfindel's face, somewhat fearful that he was only a momentary diversion for the ellon. When he saw the frown that etched itself upon his lover's brow, his heart sank.

"Who has been filling your mind with doubt, meleth nín?" Glorfindel asked, his voice pregnant with annoyance. "Tell me, and I will convince them of the depths of my feelings for you." The intimidating glower softened and the golden lord gently placed his large palm upon Lómion's cheek, and the dark elf saw only truth in his eyes. His words were soothing to the tremulous ellon.

"Lómion, you called to me from the moment that you walked into that chamber - only one other person has affected me as you have done. You stood before us all, wary and protective of your mother but with an assured air that spoke of your heritage as a scion of the house of Fingolfin. In you I saw an unworldliness that my contemporaries lost centuries ago during the hardships we had to face, an innocence that I long ago forgot. I saw a heart yearning to love, a vessel to be filled - and I would do that. I want that. I saw a sharpness of wit and a sharpness of eye - a keen glance that takes in much and understands the hearts of all. In you I see someone to whom I can open my soul. I would be your teacher, your mentor, your guide in this world. I would be your lover, your partner, your bereth. I would be yours."

Lómion's breast swelled with joy at Glorfindel's declaration, and he was overwhelmed by the honesty of his lover and his generous heart. He lightly kissed those full lips.

"You said that I have a keen eye, a 'sharp glance'. That is the name that my father chose for me, he named me 'Maeglin' in my twelfth year. Lómion is my essi tercenyë - my mothername."

"What did he call you before that? Lómion?"

The dark elf shook his head, his bleak face falling into shadow. Glorfindel ached to ease whatever hurt his young lover was recalling.

"No, he had no name for me before then - I was of no use to him being but my mother's indulgence, her 'pet'. Although it was his right, Eöl eschewed the Essecarmë. Only when I was of age to assist him in the forge, at the age of twelve, did I become more than a useless mouth to be fed and was named by him 'Maeglin'." Lómion shifted uncomfortably at the hurtful memories but Glorfindel held him still, calming him with gentle hands.

"I thought to offer my skills as an armourer and miner to my uncle, in exchange for accepting us as refugees," Lómion continued in a subdued tone.

Wincing at the uncertainty in his voice Glorfindel kissed the dark elf's forehead, trailing his mouth over the soft skin of temple and cheek in an effort to distract Lómion from his dour musings.

"You and Aredhel are not refugees but family, my sweet love; Turgon loves you both and no bartering of skills is required," he murmured as he continued his exploration of the muscular flesh. He was satisfied with the gasping response as his lover began to writhe under the arousing stimulation of the dimple of his navel, now glistening with the moisture from a laving tongue. "But indeed, do continue with your activities and endeavors if it helps you maintain this most beautiful physique."

He lifted his head from the trail of fine hair that wove a path from firm stomach to thickening shaft. Smirking unseen at the now-closed eyes, parted lips and clenching fists that threatened to rip at the twisted sheets, the golden lord knew that his diverting stratagem had succeeded.

"Aye, do continue with digging and delving for your jewels and ores, my little mole, and so will I - but it is I who will reach the greater depths and its priceless treasure."

With that happy thought Glorfindel swooped onto Lómion's weeping erection, tasting of its bittersweet juices and inhaling the enticing aroma of musky pheromones. Lómion arched, a strangled cry emanating from a tightened throat as Glorfindel sucked upon the pulsing length, setting a pace that allowed no room for thought or feeling beyond acknowledging the mastery of the Vanya in the act of love.

Lómion again cried out softly, reveling in the moist heat that surrounded him. Involuntarily his hips started to move against the restraining hands that steadied his hips for he wanted - nay, *needed* - to thrust into Glorfindel's mouth, to escalate the building pressure of sexual stimulation.

Sensing that his lover could not bear a prolonged encounter Glorfindel reached blindly for the phial of oil that lived on the bedside table, grasping it finally and releasing the stopper with practiced ease. With oiled fingers he probed the concealing crack between two firm buttocks, seeking and finding that puckered hole. Circling and pressing gently, he sought access and was rewarded when Lómion parted his thighs eagerly, lifting his long legs to rest his calves upon the broad shoulders. As his digits gained entrance to oil and widen the portal, so did Glorfindel ease his oral ministrations upon the elf's penis, grasping the thick rod at the base with his free hand so as to delay Lómion's imminent orgasm.

"Hush, my love," Glorfindel soothed Lómion's mewling protests. "I want you, I want be in you, I want to find completion by being in you - by filling you and taking us to our final sensual eruption. I want to make you mine as I am yours, my Twilight Child."

The panting ellon nodded, his throat muscles working hard to prevent a primal scream from escaping his heaving chest. Less than a week ago Lómion had been a stranger to the intricacies of male sex; now he fortified himself in anticipation of the burning, stretching entry of Glorfindel's large rod into his pulsing hole. He winced as Glorfindel inched forward carefully and though his eyes were closed, screwed up in reaction to the sharp pain the formidable girth engendered, he knew that sapphire orbs would be anxiously watching him, waiting for the moment when the burn had eased enough for Glorfindel to recommence his smooth strokes.

Lómion sighed in acquiescence as the sharp pain ebbed to a welcome throb, and the satisfying fullness in his channel spurred him to raise his pelvis so as to accept his lover fully into his depths. Full lips that had been softly caressing the sweep of his neck now curved in recognition of Lómion's heightened desire. With a gentle forward movement of his hips, Glorfindel began the ageless dance.

The thrusts were small at first but accurate in their trajectory and on each one the head of Glorfindel's shaft traversed across the sweet gland. In his folded state Lómion could scarce breath and he fought to inhale and exhale, his lungs aching as the intense pleasure from the stimulation darted throughout his body.  
He trembled fiercely, his over-stimulated nerves screaming as he sought a release still denied by his lover, who now varied the depth and speed of his strokes in sure knowledge that his skill would bring them to a greater and more powerful climax.

"Please..please..!" Lómion begged beneath him, his spine twisting in an attempt to urge his lover on. Glorfindel could resist no longer and, freed from all control, he unleashed the passion within him in a final few darting thrusts. Heat and ecstasy flared through his powerful frame, igniting the same fire in Lómion and releasing his copious seed into his darling's clenching channel.

With a gasping breath Glorfindel fell forward and to the side, taking care not to crush the slighter elf beneath him. Lómion let his limbs fall in exhaustion and rolled toward the golden ellon, accepting the protection of sinewed arms that captured him in firm embrace. The dark elf pressed thankful kisses upon the sweat-sheened torso, and luxuriated in post-coital bliss.

"Meleth nín, hîr nín," he whispered in happy repletion.

Glorfindel drew his lover closer, tucking his head under his chin and gently kissed the midnight tresses. As Lómion drifted into Irmo's gift of reverie, Glorfindel forever blessed the choices and the fate that had brought his Twilight Child to Gondolin.

 

****

 

Dust motes swam in the shimmering sunshine that filtered through the protective gauze that covered those windows of Turgon's library, and this adjacent private study. Lómion blinked as he brought his gaze to focus upon them, easing his eyes after his intense research of the day. Strewn on the polished oak desk before him were maps and charts of the mountains called the Echoriath that circled the Plain of Tumladen - inadequate charts, as far as he was concerned. Already he was planning excursions to the most promising sites in order to survey them properly. Thanks to his father's diligence in his education he was a master miner and a master armourer - despite Glorfindel's reassurances, Lómion was determined to be of use to his uncle and king. By introducing the techniques perfected in Eöl's forge, he could reproduce his father's greatest achievement, the black metal ‘galvorn’, and gift the resulting weapons to Turgon's warriors. And Glorfindel.

A soft smile played across his lips. Shifting the papers slightly he found the sketch he had started earlier, an exquisite design that melded delicate form with strength and function, a mighty broadsword that would be a gift for his lover. Lómion stroked his fingers softly across the parchment, hardly daring to acknowledge his hidden longing - that this magnificent foil would make a perfect betrothal gift for the elf that he loved...

Lightly do the Firstborn tread, their feet scarce making a sound even to acute elven ears and so the dark elf was startled when without warning the study door was flung ajar and his anxious mother dashed in. He rose in haste, hurrying to take her shaking form into his arms.

"Naneth...?"

Dread eyes held his in frightened gaze.

"He is here."

The words were stark but the meaning was clear. Eöl had somehow tracked them, though they both would have sworn that they left not discernable traces of their flight. Lómion hissed in suppressed anger, anger that was but a fraction of the cold tyranny his mother had had to bear as the wife of the bitter Teleri. Feeling Aredhel tremble in his arms his grip tightened, an unconscious reflex to her fear.

"I do not wish to go back with him, Naneth. I will *not* go back."

Aredhel lifted her head, shaking it slightly.

"Whatever he demands we cannot leave, ion nín, for it is one of your uncle's strictest edicts - whosoever enters this valley must remain here lest the secrecy of our location be compromised. Only the most trusted of his lords are utilized as couriers to our elven kin in the outside world. Now he is here, Eöl must remain."

Lómion blanched, his white complexion turning even paler at the prospect of daily interaction with a father who despised him yet coveted him as a symbol of his prowess, as his possession. Lómion released Aredhel, turning from her to stride over to the gauze-covered window and stared out over the bustling city to the flat plains and snow-capped peaks beyond. To his father, this beautiful vista would be as the darkest, harshest prison if it meant millennia in a city of the Noldor. For him it meant love, kinship, freedom. It was for freedom of thought, of deed and of reunion with his estranged kin that he had fled Nan Emloth, away from his father's overbearing influence. He had conspired with his mother to free her from a marriage not sought and, though accepted in the absence of an alternative, not happy. He had come to Gondolin seeking solace for Aredhel - and had found love for himself, a love that Eöl would never accept. Now he ached for Glorfindel's arms, his embrace, his comfort, and love. Pushing away that which he could not at present have, he turned once more to his mother who stood awaiting him, a deceptively calm mask now upon her visage in denial of her own fears.

"If he accepts the King's edict and stays, will you still be his wife?"

The softly-spoken question cracked the fragile mask. With wide doe-like eyes Aredhel tried to frame a response, her mouth working silently to answer this vital query. Finally her eyes dropped in submission.

"I must. Although I have often regretted my actions, I agreed to the marriage in awe of Eöl's strength of will." She lifted her head and smiled wryly at her son. "He is handsome in his rugged way and, at the time, I was in rebellion of the restrictions of life in the King's Tower and the conventions of Gondolin society. It is a true marriage and I cannot lay it aside if he requires me to honour our - commitment."

"Yet you left him."

The White Lady nodded, pleading for understanding in that simple gesture.

"It was a true marriage - but not a true love. That comes only rarely and it is only the foolish and the arrogant that refuse it when it is offered."

"Mine is a true love."

He had not meant to say it like so baldly, to speak of the treasured bond between him and his golden lord with such abruptness, but even as he blurted forth his feelings Lómion realized that it was not news to his mother. He froze as she advanced upon him, unsure of her position in this matter but she simply lifted her hand to caress her son's cheek in a loving and accepting gesture. Her sorrow was palpable as she gazed into his eyes.

"In Glorfindel you could have found no worthier mate - the Golden Lord does not offer his love lightly. He was my childhood friend; we traversed the frozen wastes of the Helcaraxë together. He has faced many trials and his heart has been assailed more than once. Yet still he yearns for that which he was denied in the past and he deserves the happiness he seeks. If he has found it in you, pen neth, and you in him then I give my blessing to you both. However, you know that this match will not find favour with your father?"

Lómion knew that she was right - but in his eyes Eöl no longer had the right to control his life.

"I shall not speak to my father about this or any other matter. It is said that I have the gift of persuasion in my voice, but Eöl is immune to any argument I may lay before him. I shall be silent lest he seeks to defeat me in debate. Let him make of my silence what he will." Still, a bleak look passed across his face as he remembered the few true moments of companionship he had experienced with his father during their time as master and apprentice, and he knew that beneath the front of icy coldness there lay a small child who longed for the love and approbation of a father.

Aredhel nodded, understanding the son's reluctance to enter into open and ugly defiance of the father. Sighing in resignation, she now requested her beloved Lómion to escort her to the King's hall.

"I spoke to the guard who accosted Eöl and bid him bring your father hither. They await our presence."

"Glorfindel...?"

"He is returned from his patrol and has taken his place with his fellow lords of Gondolin."

Lómion inhaled, using the breath to fortify himself for the confrontation ahead; then he took his mother's arm and escorted her to the King's hall.

 

****

 

The hall of Turgon, King of the Hidden City, was an imposing edifice that was imbued with light and beauty, and the potency of power. Many edhil, if called to stand before the Elven host of Gondolin and its resplendent Lord, might feel somewhat diminished under its great rafters and echoing vaulted ceiling.

Eöl was not in the least intimidated.

Indeed he stood there in an enveloping traveling cloak flanked by his guards, his disdain evident in both his aggressive stance and the twisted bitterness upon his face.

Turgon glanced briefly at his sister and her son, and inwardly berated his wayward sibling for her impetuous nature that had led her out of his city years before and had ended in the coils of this ellon. Silently she stood, outwardly composed yet Turgon knew that, whatever regret he might feel on her behalf, Aredhel's regrets were multiplied by her concern for her son. As to that son, Lómion had not spoken since his arrival to the hall; a stance that his sister had advised him was a strategic one. Nay, not Lómion but Maeglin: after discussion they had deemed it wise to call him by his father-name in this audience, the better to deal with the said father. Now, seated majestically upon his throne, Turgon greeted his erstwhile brother-in-law with as much civility and pleasure as he could muster.

"Welcome, kinsman, for so I hold you. Here you shall dwell at your pleasure, save only that you must here abide and depart not from my kingdom; for it is my law that none who finds the way hither shall depart."

From the disagreeable and sneering frown the Dark Elf gave him, it was clear that this law was not acceptable to Eöl. The metal smith was swift in rebutting Turgon's hand of kinship.

"I acknowledge not your law," the growling voice rumbled. "No right have you or any of your kin in this land to seize realms or to set bounds, either here or there. This is the land of the Teleri, to which you bring war and all unquiet, dealing ever proudly and unjustly. I care nothing for your secrets and I come not to spy upon you, but to claim my own: my wife and my son. Yet if in Aredhel your sister you have some claim, then let her remain; let the bird go back to the cage, where soon she will sicken again, as she sickened before. But not so Maeglin. My son you shall not withhold from me. Come, Maeglin son of Eöl! Your father commands you. Leave the house of his enemies and the slayers of his kin, or be accursed!"

Outraged cries rang out in the King's hall as the court of Gondolin took umbrage at the arrogance of the Teleri elf, but in all the tumult the king heard but two distinct voices - a distressed cry from the princess, and an urgent shout of 'No! Thou shalt not have him. He is mine!' came from Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. From Lómion there was nothing. Turgon, although displeased at Eöl's bold and violent tirade, first looked at his nephew before responding. Lómion held fast to his silence, his face solid granite that masked any emotional reaction that he may have been had to the curse laid upon him by his father. Holding his hand up for silence, Turgon turned back to his reluctant guest.

"I will not debate with you, Dark Elf. By the swords of the Noldor alone are your sunless woods defended. Your freedom to wander there wild you owe to my kin; and but for them long since you would have laboured in thraldom in the pits of Angband. And here I am King; and whether you will it or will it not, my doom is law. This choice is given to you: to abide here, or to die here; and also for your son."

Eöl's face darkened as the heated blood rushed through his inflamed veins lit with his ire. Turgon saw the smith's hand clench under his cloak as if he groped for the sword that had thankfully been taken from him on his arrival at the valley gates. Although Turgon knew that Lómion had chosen to remain (he had already sworn an oath of allegiance, and the king was not blind to the attraction between his nephew and his formidable golden lord), he was uncertain as to Eöl's choice as well as being uncertain as to whether he could abide the edhel living in his city, so apparent was the vile disdain that Eöl held for the Gondolindrim. Turgon watched in disgust as the smith obviously sought to contest his ruling. A sideways glance at Lómion showed that Eöl's son still refused to react to his father's anger.

The king's musings lasted but seconds, for Eöl was unrepentant and the Dark Elf acted quickly. 

"The second choice I take and for my son also! You shall not hold what is mine!"

Eöl the smith not only knew how to forge weapons, he knew how to wield them too. With a speed borne of centuries of practice he threw back his long shielding cape to reveal an evil-looking javelin and, with a mighty thrust, he aimed and flung it at the dais, directly at his son's heart.

The velocity of a thrown spear is swift indeed, almost too swift for even elven reflexes, but there were at least two who reacted instinctively to intercept the javelin before it reached the target. Lómion was not one of them - the young elf did not move, though later witnesses would debate whether it was from misplaced bravado or frozen shock. Glorfindel however had leapt from the ranks of his fellow lords but all agreed that despite his valour (and his accompanying agonized cry) he was at too great a distance to have reached the king's nephew in time.

Another *was* within reach and sadly, she succeeded.

"Naneth!"

****

The princess's chamber was a quiet bustle of activity as healer's strove to soothe the fevered and delirious elleth. They had acted quickly to clean and dress the wound in the aftermath of the assault in the King's hall, and Aredhel had seemed to recover quickly although the spear tip had caused her great pain during its removal. Silent tears had coursed down Lómion's face as he had kneeled and cradled her in his arms upon the marble floor, whilst Turgon's chief physician had attended the wounded elleth. Aredhel had not remained silent though, and had pleaded urgently with her brother not to act rashly against her estranged husband.

"Let not your actions be dictated by him, my lord! He tried to commit the very crime of which he accused you by attempting to slay the closest of his kin, his son: do not commit the same crime whilst possessed of great anger. See, my beloved brother - he did not succeed! Lómion took no hurt and I received the merest scratch."

Her niece Idril had echoed her aunt's sentiments and in turn had sought to stay her father's hand.

"Peace!" he had cried in the end. "I will do ask you ask." He turned to Eöl, who was now bound and held firm by Ecthelion and Galdor. A rag had been strapped firmly in his mouth, for the dark elf had continued to spew his hate-filled vitriol even as he had struggled against his bonds. "Take this miscreant and secure him in a stoutly-barred room and guard him well. My lords," he turned to his nobles about him, "I would take counsel from you in the matter of retribution against Eöl of Nan Emloth - for although none here can fail to be affected by the events of the afternoon, more so will our realm be diminished if we allow this atrocity to go unpunished."

And reluctantly Glorfindel had taken leave of his stricken lover, entrusting him to the gentle care of his cousin. Together Lómion and Idril had taken the wounded Aredhel to her chambers, where she had insisted that she needed no vigil to be held for her.

"Although my wound aches, so will a warm poultice sooth it. I am weary and will sleep."

Yet in the outer room Lómion and Idril remained; Lómion was still shaken from the evil encounter with his sire and its consequences; Idril, of kind heart and sympathetic nature, talked softly with her cousin until late, drawing him out and Lómion was grateful to his beautiful kinswoman. They were not disturbed until a healer sought entrance, so as to check Aredhel's wound and the efficacy of the poultice. All were horrified upon entering the bedchamber to find Aredhel in a relentless and distressing fever.

Now, hours later, the fever refused to break despite the best efforts of the physicians and only lately had the theory of a poisoned dart been mooted. During all their ministrations Lómion had sat at his mother's side holding her hand, weeping in grief.

Idril was called from her aunt's side where she had been attempting to cool the princess with cold cloths applied to her burning skin by a scratching at the outer door. She returned within minutes with a message for Lómion.

"Cousin," she said, touching him lightly upon the shoulder to gain his attention. "Glorfindel is without and wishes to speak with you."

Lómion looked up at Idril, his eyes shadowed with concern, then glanced longingly at the outer door. He shook his head.

"My mother ails. I cannot leave her."

"I will stay with her, Lómion, and will fetch you if her condition should change," Idril assured him. "Glorfindel worries about you, and needs to be sure that you took no hurt."

The dark-haired elf *did* long to see his melethron too and so finally yielded his place at his mother's side, slipping out of the room to where Glorfindel waited in the torch-lit corridor. The Golden Lord opened his arms and gathered his young lover close, offering comfort and love.

"How fares Aredhel?" he asked, his voice trembling with concern. Lómion shook his head sorrowfully.

"Not well - they believe now that the javelin tip was poisoned by my father." His voice cracked as the full import of the existence of poison flooded his body, and the dark eyes he raised to meet Glorfindel's were brimming with shining, unshed tears.

"He hates me, Glorfindel! My father sought my death rather than allow me to live in harmony with my Noldor kin! Why - how could he -?"

Horror and sorrow filled him and his swollen throat blocked further speech. Safe in the strong arms of his lord, still he could draw no comfort from him even as Glorfindel pressed small kisses upon hair and face, murmuring sweet and soothing words. Lómion took a resolution at that moment. Pulling back, he lifted his head to look at his lover.

"I must speak with him, Glorfindel. I must confront him and discover why he promulgated such a dreadful fate upon me, one that my mother took upon herself even to the sacrifice of her life."

Glorfindel looked doubtful and Lómion knew that the golden lord was loath to allow his lover to face the warped creature who was his father; he knew not what other vile arguments and curses Eöl might heap upon the young elf.

"He is guarded, meleth," Glorfindel explained gently. "Turgon honours your mother's wishes and so is holding Eöl securely but without harm. I am not sure that whoever of my fellow lords is guarding at present would allow you an interview with him."

Lómion looked at him carefully. "You are one of the King's most trusted advisors - do you not take your turn at this duty? Mayhap I could see him on your watch."

Glorfindel shook his head, running his hands softly down Lómion's arms, trying to reassure him.

"Turgon honours your mother's wishes," he repeated. Lómion looked blankly at him.

"So?"

Glorfindel gazed into his eyes and even in his grief Lómion wondered how anyone could resist those glorious orbs. Glorfindel smiled wryly.

"Turgon knows that I would kill Eöl for what he has done to you and your mother; the King has commanded that I do not approach him." His gaze was soft, pleading as he stroked his large hand over Lómion's cheek. "It would not be wise for you to confront him this night, meleth. He is bitter, twisted - he will not repent of his evil deed. Leave him for tonight at least." The warrior looked over the dark elf's shoulder at the closed door behind him. Lómion lifted his own hand in a reciprocal gesture, drawing his lover's attention away from Aredhel's chamber back to him. He drew a steadying breath for he knew that in speaking of his fears he was making them more real.

"It must be tonight, Glorfindel. I have given to the healers all the knowledge I have of the poisons my father would use but Naneth is not responding to any of the remedies. I fear that she will not see the dawn. In that case I will be an orphan, for Turgon will not suffer his sister's murderer to live."

The stark reality of that statement caused Glorfindel to shudder and Lómion saw a bleak anguish fill his lover's sapphire eyes: his heart burned that the golden lord should hurt so much for his sake. Glorfindel gathered Lómion to him, curling him into his arms and he pressed a comforting kiss against his forehead.

"Then I will accompany you."

Lómion shook his head.

"I must see him alone. Besides, you are still under interdict - you may not attend him." He pressed his fingers against those full lips to stall the swift protest there. "If you would ease my heart, take up my vigil at my mother's side. You are her childhood friend and she loves you, as my melethron - I know she will be easier if you are there in my stead."

Although he still looked worried, Glorfindel acquiesced.

"Take care, seron vell. Hateful words has he spoken already - I wouldn't not have you hurt more this night."

With a final sweet kiss the two lovers parted, one to sit beside the bed of a dying elleth; the other went to face her murderer.

 

****

 

There were no dungeons in Gondolin - there was no need, for the elves of the Hidden City bore great love for their king and his firm yet benevolent rule. Still, they had found a dark and dreary room in which to imprison Eöl of Nan Emloth, a room lit only by the pale midsummer moon that shone in through a high slit window. Yet further illumination was not required - the acuity of elven sight negated the need for torches or candles, either of which could have become a weapon in the hands of a desperate prisoner. 

Lómion had not found it difficult to gain entry to his father. The young elf had a persuasion in his voice that few could deny and Egalmoth had felt deep sympathy for the son who had to face such a cruel and violent sire, bound though the Dark Elf was. Still the Gondolin lord advised Turgon's nephew to have care. Lómion thanked him quietly then requested privacy for his interview, "... for this is a painful and sorrowful night for us all, yet more so for me."

Egalmoth nodded then retreated, having first removed the gag from Eöl's mouth. Lómion stood facing the bound elf who sat across a dividing table, suddenly unsure how to address the edhel who would have taken his life. Eöl had no such reservations.

"So - the whelpling braves his father - though I am ashamed to call myself such. Ashamed I am to admit such a traitorous and cowering creature ever sprang from my loins! I will ever rue the day I named you as my son."'

"Late you were in the naming, and you only deigned to do so when I became anything other than a hindrance. Nor will you have long to bemoan my existence, for Naneth fails fast and my uncle will not suffer you to live if she dies." Lómion leaned forward urgently, thumping his fists upon the solid wood of the table. "What poison did you use? None of the remedies we have tried are efficacious. Were you to give me that antidote, I could yet ask the king to spare you!"

"Plead not for me with that Noldor scum - you are ill-witted indeed if you think any of those kinslayers wish to see me live after I named their sins in public!" Eöl smiled, and Lómion shuddered to see the evil in that grimace. "There is no antidote and if there were, I would not reveal it! The female means nothing to me now, nor do you. Let the Noldo weep for his sister - his tears are but that of a reptile, false tears for show. They will never match the tears that were shed following the atrocities of Alqualondë. Hypocrites!"

Lómion recoiled from the vehemence of his father's ranting, and knew at last that there was no hope for his mother. A great sob rose up, choking his throat yet he would not allow Eöl the satisfaction of its release. Seeing his sire as if for the first time, he was surprised at his response to Eöl's outburst.

"I feel sorry for you." His words came from his heart. "Since our arrival I have found acceptance, as both a nephew and a friend. I have been given the rank of a prince and all honour that the rank is due. And I have found love. I have found so much since we came to my mother's kin and you - you have lost...everything..."

"Love? You? Hah, so some vacuous Noldor whore has trapped you in her coils! It seems we are more alike than you would wish."

Lómion straightened, tensing as he realized that the love he was so proud of would be mocked and reviled. Still he *was* proud of his golden lord, and he was not afraid to acknowledge his powerful lover to his father.

"My love - my true love - is Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower; he is a warrior of great renown and a favourite of the king of Gondolin."

The proud declaration produced a most unexpected result. His mouth agape in shock, Eöl began to shake and Lómion feared that his father was in the imminent throes of some kind of fit. His surprise became intense confusion when instead Eöl laughed, a roaring hysterical laughter that did not soon abate. Indeed it took the Dark Elf many minutes to comport himself enough for intelligent speech, so amused did he seem. Blinking his eyes to rid them of the tears his laughter had produced, Eöl finally found breath to speak.

"Aiya, what an opportunist that elf is! I almost admire his determination, even if I damn his soul. Does he seek to work his way through Fingolfin's entire brood? For his method of gaining the power he obviously seeks seems to be failing dismally!"

Lómion could make no sense of his father's musings. What had he said to elicit such laughter?

"Who are you talking about?" he asked in annoyance, for this conversation had not developed in the manner he had foreseen. "Why do you speak of the king's family?"

Eöl shook his head, wry mirth still evident in his visage.

"Turgon is a self-important fool - I have no inclination to dwell much upon the imbecile - but Glorfindel... When he failed with the brother he sought the sister - and when *she* spurned him, he seems to have succeeded with the son. I did not realise that I had whelped such a dolt!"

Lómion went cold as suspicion flooded through him. Despite his father's harsh dismissal of him, he was noted for his sharp senses, both physical and intellectual. It did not take a genius to comprehend his father's aspersions. His eyes narrowed at the disgusting implications.

"You lie!" he hissed, his hand itching to strike the smug grin off his father's smirking face. "I know that you love to spread dark rumour and discord, and you shall not succeed! Glorfindel is truthful and honorable - and he loves *me*!"

False sympathy covered his father's face. "Of course," he agreed with obviously sweet insincerity. "I am sure that you believe he cares for you and I am also sure that he does - you are, after all, the king's nephew."

Eöl's face darkened in cruel cunning, his cold heart grasping onto his son's distress. Whatever the truth behind Glorfindel's transferred attentions (Eöl knew not if Glorfindel had indeed finally found his soul mate in his son) yet still the Dark Elf realized that this minor breach of Lómion's trust in his uncle, mother and lover was a burgeoning seed that he could encourage to grow with carefully chosen insinuations. Through this falsehood would Eöl leave a final legacy, a division within the ranks of the Noldor that could reverberate down through the centuries. He thus berated his son, using vicious words set to foster his innate insecurities.

"Hah, I named you fool and fool you are! The brief and failed affair with Turgon was probably only the fumbling of youth - it occurred after all just after their majority. And I cannot say if he attempted Idril, I have no knowledge of that and from what I have heard the little bitch avoids entanglements of that nature (so it seems at least one person in that clan has some sense). But of Glorfindel and Aredhel, I do not lie! I have no need to - especially now at my life's end."

His head swimming with undefined emotion, Lómion could not take in all of his father's speech. It was not true. They were childhood friends. Glorfindel... his eyes... the truth of his love in their depths... And yet -

"No, you *do* lie!" He shook his head defiantly, attempting to be strong in his love, to apply logic to an intensely emotional situation. "You lie," he repeated, trying to calm his tremulous voice. "You have never been to the Hidden City before. You never met Turgon, or Idril, or Glorfindel, so there can be no basis for your accusations. It is but your long-standing hatred of our Noldor brethren that leads you to this wild...insanity!"

Eöl snickered, the hysterical edge still evident in his words and tone.

"I had no need to enter this unholy madhouse to know the truthful nature of its inhabitants! Think you that Aredhel and I were always at a distance? How in the name of the Valar do you think you came to be? We were not always at odds. In the early years she spoke often of her life in the city, and of the society therein. The White Lady of Gondolin did indeed sicken here, trapped like a wild white bird in a gilded cage. She fled to escape boredom and was at first content in the quiet groves of Nan Emloth. It was later, after you were born, that she began to turn against me and taunted me incessantly with tales of her former lovers and mostly of her most persistent suitor, Lord Glorfindel. Glorfindel probably always coveted power - Turgon has no male heir. If he were to become the king's brother-in-law then he would be well placed to take the throne if anything were to happen to Turgon. When Aredhel broke off their liaison he probably turned to Idril, yet naught seems to have come of it. Now Aredhel has returned but as the wife of another, ruling out *that* association - so now he seeks an alliance through you, as the nearest male heir and new-made prince."

"He... They... They did not..."

Eöl saw that his son wavered in his trust of his lover's motives and so cruelly thrust and twisted the last jibe, the aim to sever that even faint hope.

"Of course they did! Aredhel and Glorfindel lay together, they were lovers - and he rammed the same rod up her twat that he has shoved up your hole, you ignorant catamite!"

An overwhelming grief shot through Lómion, a powerful wave of despairing loss that caused him to stagger on his feet, a roaring in his ears making him deaf to all but a resounding echo of a single name. 'Glorfindel!' his heart cried in a last brief spurt of faith before an icy crust formed around that betrayed organ, locking away all the innocent love of the last week. The seed had germinated and, as a virulent weed, it had taken hold and now grew quickly.

A touch upon his shoulder startled him, jolting him from his mental isolation. Looking up he saw Egalmoth now entered the room and standing beside him, his face stained with tears.

"Lómion, your mother..."

Without a word of acknowledgement, the young elf turned upon his heels and exited his father's prison, never to speak again to his sire in this life.

 

*****

 

The king stood by his sibling's deathbed, copious tears spilling forth from his brimming eyes as he looked down upon the still figure. Newly found and newly lost, the king grieved for his only sister. Others who stood about the chamber, gathering the failed accoutrements of healing, exhibited similar signs of sorrow - but the only figure that Lómion could see was that of Glorfindel, his golden locks spilling onto the rumpled, sweat-stained sheets and his shoulders lifting in heaving sobs as he bent his head to that unmoving breast and wept for his childhood playmate and one-time lover.

Lómion did not move, did not speak, did not weep. He stood alone and untouched at the edge of the scene, forgotten until his cousin, the sweet and beautiful Idril Celebrindal, opened her compassionate heart and folded him in her consoling arms. He did not speak, he did not weep - but he melted into the embrace of the one person who had not betrayed him, and an unnatural love took hold of his lonely desires that were now isolated from a frozen heart.

 

****

 

Turgon's judgment was swift and expected. In the dawning light of daybreak, even as the body of his sister lay in state upon the cold bier now set in the King's hall, Turgon of Gondolin watched as Eöl was led by Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch and Glorfindel of the Golden Flower to the city walls. There at Caragdûr, a precipice of black rock on the north side of the hill of Gondolin, Eöl would meet his fate. Maeglin, son of Aredhel, stood beside his uncle and king, and he did not speak to his father but rather stood with a stone-like demeanour even as his father berated him with his last breath.

"So you forsake your father and his kin, ill-gotten son! Here shall you fail of all your hopes, and here may you yet die the same death as I."

And Egalmoth with Glorfindel lifted the bound elf and cast him down to his death, his body breaking upon the black rocks below.

When Glorfindel approached his lover, seeking to console Maeglin through tender touches and gentle words of love, he found Maeglin gone. And never more did the young prince allow him to approach but sought instead the company of the one elleth he yet trusted and came to love illicitly, for the taboo of blood was overwritten with unnatural carnal desire.

'...but Idril was troubled, and from that day she mistrusted her kinsman.'

\----

 

Epilogue:

 

The Halls of Mandos are grey, filled with a swirling mist that muffles sound and distorts vision. Thus it is intended to hold separate the inhabitants so that their years of residence following their death are spent in solitary contemplation and reflection so as to cleanse and ready the souls for their eventual rebirth. The corridors and chambers are lined with mirrors that do not reflect their appearance but their lives, in moments and glimpses of regrets, sorrow and joy. Only on the judgment of Námo and Manwë are the souls released to be born in physical form, their putative parents being amongst the residents of Aman; but not all souls are eligible for a renewed life in Arda's realms and thus dwell permanently in the quietness of Námo's home.

Glorfindel of Gondolin was called forth from a repose that had spanned almost an Age; he was called forth to answer a need and to fulfill an oath. He held an unswerving devotion to the scions of Fingolfin's line, in whose service he had given of his life in a fiery tumble from the cliffs of Cirith Thoronath. In a deviation from the norm, Glorfindel was brought forth from the halls in his adult form, in a body cleansed of the scars gained in his previous life. The mighty warrior was guided in the first years of his rebirth by the Maia Olórin, with whom he found great friendship; he spent those years in learning all he could of the history of the House of Fingolfin and the incumbent lord - Elrond, son of Eärendil, who was herald to Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor.

The day came when Glorfindel of Gondolin was to sail across the shining sea to a Middle Earth that was beleaguered by Melkor's former lieutenant, who wielded a commanding ring of gold in his quest for absolute power. In the hours before he boarded ship the warrior lord was brought before Manwë in all his glory for a final admonition and blessing.

"Glorfindel - in recognition of your earlier sacrifice and acceptance of this new duty that has been laid upon you, I grant you one boon of your choice to ease you in your return to Middle Earth. Speak, and if it can be granted it will be."

The golden lord stood straight and tall before the leader of the Valar and spoke his boon with earnest desire.

"Lord Manwë, I am honoured that you have granted such mercy to me, one who left Aman as an Exile and a rebel against your edicts. In turn I ask that you grant this boon; that you would show the same mercy to one whom I long sought whilst sojourning in the House of thy brother Mandos, but never found. His crimes in life were evil indeed - yet they stemmed from a soul that had been ill-used, torn as it was between warring parents, and battered by unstinting bitterness that twisted all rational thought. Grant mercy, my lord, to him of whom I speak, that the punishments he has engendered may be tempered by some hope of redemption."

Manwë frowned, for this would be a heavy boon to grant and he said this to the waiting Glorfindel.

"It was not thought that the elf of whom you speak would ever leave the misty halls; for if he were to live once more amongst his kin in the same form and with the same nature that was his before his death, then his appearance would create great distress for his many victims and their hatred would wound his already tortured soul. I cannot see that I can grant this boon, but be assured that your generosity of spirit has done no harm to his cause."

And so Glorfindel had to be content only that he had laid the case before Manwë, even if he was disappointed in its answer and he set sail at the appointed time. But Varda, wife to Manwë, was intrigued that an elf who had betrayed his own kind in such a dreadful way could still bring forth such compassion and love. In turn her own compassion drove her to the Halls of Waiting where she spoke to Vairë, and saw within her tapestries the truth of the life of the elf in question. Of Nienna too she took counsel, for this fair and gentle sister of Námo and Irmo had given strength of spirit to the edhel and had wrought much good in the cleansing of his soul. Slowly a plan formulated in Varda's mind and when the time was right she brought it to her husband, and Manwë saw that it was good. And so, when an Age had ended with the death of three kings and the severing of a ring-bearing finger from a black-armoured hand, Varda sculpted the new form and Nienna cleared the mind of all its dread memories, and Vairë began to weave a new tale with a tarnished silver thread that had been burnished anew.

 

****

 

Imladris, Third Age

 

The snow was falling heavily on the Yuletide Eve that brought a young edhel to the elf haven high above the frozen Bruinen, there to begin service to its lord as a lowly scribe. It was said that he was somehow kin to the lord, but it was hard work and devotion to his duties that furthered his career rather than any familial favours, until he rose to the highest office and became Elrond's most trusted counsellor. Ever did he eschew the weapons of war, declaring his abhorrence for sword and spear, but instead wielded the mightier weapons of quill and ink and negotiating skills, all for the benefit of the grandson of Turgon.

Of slight and slender build, with midnight hair, exotic eyes and a complexion of cream; his beauty brought admiring comments - but a sharp glance, sharper tongue and biting wit dissuaded potential suitors from furthering their acquaintance. Only the pure heart of a golden lord saw through the cool exterior, and his gentle love thawed the heart that had been frozen thousands of years before, and an imprisoned soul soared free to find and meet its patient and long-sundered mate. Whether the golden lord recognized his lost prince in his now-changed form it is not known, but he received the edhel’s soul in bonded marriage with thankful joy, and loved and protected him through all their days.

Their tale has been told elsewhere in many different forms but, with the aid of his love long ago lost and newly found, the once-traitorous soul supported his lord through rings lost and found; witnessed the unstinting valour of periannath; held fast against siege in the assault of war; and stood at his lord's side as Elrond gave his beloved daughter in marriage to a mortal king. For the purity of his spirit the edhel was renowned and at long last that soul - whose dark and previous memories had been erased - gained redemption that he did not know he needed, in the unknowing eyes of the kin that did not recognise him as the once-vilified edhel of Nan Emloth.

And so, on the final remove to Aman, he was welcomed personally and with much satisfaction by the Queen of the Valar; and the once-damned soul found peace and love and a second chance, and the hand of his golden lord.

 

FIN

 

Elvish:

edhel - elf (sing.)  
Suilad - Greetings  
melethron - male lover  
ellon - male elf  
Meleth nín - my love  
seron vell - beloved  
Bereth - spouse  
essi tercenyë - mothername  
Essecarmë - naming by the father  
hîr nín - my lord  
Naneth - Mother  
pen neth - little one  
edhil - elves  
elleth - female elf

**Author's Note:**

> Many of the speeches (of Turgon and Eöl) within this story are direct text from the chapter ‘Of Maeglin’ in ‘The Silmarillion’ by J.R.R. Tolkien.


End file.
